


(i believe in) some kind of path

by Hth



Series: Pretty Good Universe [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Family, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Romance, on god bro we gonna get you a therapist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24675955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/pseuds/Hth
Summary: Eliot might actually hate his shrink.  Yes, Eliot is getting healthier or whatever, but at what cost?  He used to be a mess of scar tissue and substance abuse, but he could get dressed in the morning without an existential crisis.A phantom chapter 13.5 from Pretty Good Year
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Pretty Good Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686286
Comments: 29
Kudos: 123





	(i believe in) some kind of path

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you are a person who's read my Magicians AU Pretty Good Year, you may remember there's a longish timeskip between chapters 13 and 14, and this story fits inside that gap.
> 
> If you are not a person who's read my Magicians AU Pretty Good Year -- wow, this would be an extremely weird place to start. I mean, it's a choice you could make, but I would...not, if I were you, because starting here would be both spoilery and super confusing. Read PGY and then come back! I'll wait!
> 
> The title is from Nick Cave's "Into My Arms."

Eliot can't sleep at all the night before. He's worse than the kid, honestly.

He's twitching around so much that he finally just gets up rather than risk Margo's wrath by accidentally waking her up. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and sits on the couch in his underwear, watching costuming tutorials on YouTube in the dark with his earbuds in, and he thinks about – nothing.

No expectations. That's what he and his shrink agreed on, or more accurately, what his shrink has been bullying him into agreeing on lately. Better not to over-plan for tomorrow, better not to try guessing what it's going to feel like. _Sometimes it's okay just to show up and see what happens_ , according to Penny.

Sounds fake to Eliot, but okay.

So Eliot's not thinking and he's not planning, but he's not really sleeping, either. Sorry, that's the best he can do.

At least being up all night means he gets the shower before Margo does in the morning, before she's even gone on her run, and it gives him time to rifle through his wardrobe options, because he can't be over-planning and imposing expectations if he hasn't even laid out an outfit in advance, right? That's the theory, anyway.

He picks out light gray pants and a light blue shirt, then a pewter tie and a vest in a similar base color with old gold and bronze worked throughout the embroidery. He's not sure about the gold tones; he's worn this vest with gray before, but never with the blue shirt, too. White shirt feels wrong for the occasion, a little too chilly; he thinks it makes him look like he works in a museum. The blue seems – more approachable. Blue always works for him when he wants to come across like a person with – feelings and whatnot. He just doesn't know if you can break up the gray with gold _and_ blue, or if that's too many things happening in one outfit. He can't decide.

Without a plan, it turns out, a lot of decisions are _really hard_. Eliot might actually hate his shrink. Yes, Eliot is getting healthier or whatever, but at what cost? He used to be a mess of scar tissue and substance abuse, but he could get _dressed_ in the morning without an existential crisis.

There is a certain level of perspective, Eliot is aware, from which the whole question is absurd. He can wear the blue shirt or the white one and it literally won't make any difference. But that's kind of what makes it frustrating, isn't it? There's no objectively correct answer here, and there will never be a way to come to some kind of final judgment on whether or not he's done the right thing. Eliot just – wants to know if he's made the right choice, is that so insane? Does he need, like, psychiatric help for that very basic human desire?

He wears the blue. It makes him look more approachable, right? He thinks it does.

Quentin will not spend any amount of time deciding what to wear today. He probably has one clean outfit left and a suitcase full of laundry, so the choice makes itself. That thought should be annoying, but it isn't at all.

Nobody knows yet except Eliot, so he has to be as normal as possible for breakfast and teeth-brushing and the carpool lane and the whole routine. By the time Eliot's dropped Ted off, genuine, unfaked normalcy almost feels within reach.

With his spare couple of hours, Eliot gets the chicken rubbed down and in the crock pot with onions and celery, and he lets himself into Quentin's apartment to feed the cat and change his litter. He still has time left. It's not that there aren't plenty of productive things he could be doing with a free hour, his head is just – all over the place.

He thinks about making himself a drink to settle his nerves, but all the good ingredients are across the hall. He thinks about maybe trying a different direction with his shirt, but – real talk, that way lies madness.

He sits down at the piano instead. The keys feel slightly unfamiliar under his hands; he hasn't played much lately. He's avoided being in Quentin's condo, honestly, surrounded by Quentin's books and Quentin's art and Quentin's empty bed in the next room. But once he can hear the notes, it starts to feel right again. He plays On the Street Where You Live, and he plays it again, and he plays it again, like a glitching robot. His hands just keep moving, because when they stop....

Which doesn't even make any sense, why is he being so....

Today's a good day.

No, that's – not right. Today's going to be the best day he can have. Which is different.

Therapy sucks.

He thinks he's allowed to just pull the car up to the circle drive and pick Quentin up, curbside-service style, but it feels too much like he's Quentin's Uber driver, so he parks in the visitor's lot and walks up like always. Nobody has to buzz him through the lobby doors this time, because Quentin is sitting outside them, his suitcase beside him on the bench, his nose in a book. He's wearing a forest green henley and jeans, all of his hair pulled back except the parts that aren't.

Eliot saw him four days ago. Quentin hasn't changed, because _obviously_ he hasn't changed in four days.

He's been in the hospital for three weeks. Has he changed in three weeks? Hopefully, right? Or is that wrong, is Eliot not supposed to – want to change him? It seems like you hear that advice a lot: be with someone that you want as they are right now, not someone you would want if you could just submit a few small notes on their performance.

Quentin's never tried to change Eliot, not in any small or large way, not for a second. Eliot – can't say that he's returned that favor. Does that make him the unhealthy one in their relationship? It seems like you hear that a lot.

_No expectations_ , Eliot has to remind himself yet again. No agendas, no over-planning, no guesses. Eliot is just – here now, showing up, because Quentin asked him to. Because he could've called an Uber, but he didn't, he called Eliot.

“Hi, handsome,” Eliot says, having snuck up on Quentin through a devious strategy of walking directly up in front of him while he's reading. “Come here often?”

“First time, actually,” Quentin says mildly, shifting the bookmark to his new spot and tucking the book into the front pocket of his pilot case. “You?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time,” Eliot says. “I like 'em a little crazy, you know?”

Quentin stands up, then keeps reaching up and up, wrapping his arms around Eliot's neck like he's drowning at sea. Eliot locks an arm around his waist, presses his other hand to Quentin's shoulder, presses his face to Quentin's hair. It smells the same as always. Eliot packed his regular shampoo for him three weeks ago when they came here. “God, I missed you so much,” Quentin says against Eliot's vest.

“I'm here now,” Eliot says. He's just here. No expectations. He drops a little kiss in Quentin's hair and then pulls back. “Let's get you home, okay?”

It's still not even ten-thirty, so Eliot takes Quentin to brunch, as is the way of their people. Quentin claims not to be hungry, but he houses two Belgian waffles and a side of bacon and a matcha latte while Eliot tells him funny stories about Ted's feud with his art teacher (apparently he's decided that it's a violation of his civil rights or creative spirit or whatever to be given assignments in art class instead of just making whatever he feels like – _well, he has a point, maybe?_ Quentin says, and Eliot says, _do not start, art is what you do within the form and also they're learning Mondrian patterns, it's so cool, please be on my side here_ and Quentin says _I don't know what that is_ and Eliot says _you are breaking my heart_ ) and about being forced to family-bond last Friday with Margo's new boyfriend ( _wait – what?_ Quentin says, and Eliot says, _I know, right!_ ) Eliot leaves a fifty-percent tip because the waitress looked like she thought they were cute, and he's having a good day.

At home Eliot starts Quentin's laundry while Quentin lies on the couch and roughs up Fester's ears; Fester purrs and purrs and his tail quivers in the air and he keeps jamming his skull under Quentin's chin while Quentin laughs and complains. “Well, don't get him all riled up, then,” Eliot says, pretending to take the complaints seriously.

“Yeah, he doesn't understand us, does he?” Quentin tells the cat. “Your love language is leaving bruises all over my ribs. You're showing your affection. I know, buddy, I get it.”

Eliot liberates a Chapstick from the pockets of Quentin's other jeans before he throws them in the wash, humming noncommittally. He has some thoughts about exactly whose  _love language_ involves bruises, but he keeps it to himself.

God, it's been so long since-- Even before Quentin took a hiatus from life, sex between them had been extremely no-frills for quite some time. They were both constantly tired, and Quentin could only focus on something that wasn't the inside of his skull for short periods. Eliot can't remember the last time he saw Quentin sprawled out in the wrecked sheets, sweaty and tranced-out and giddy with endorphins and sleep deprivation, scratches all up his arms and bruises starting to creep up toward the surface on his hips and thighs. January sometime? Had to be January.

It's feast or famine, being Quentin's lover. Not that Eliot...wants to change him, but if sometime soon Quentin finds his appetite again, then Eliot is  _so_ here for it.

“You're quiet,” Quentin says.

“Sorry,” he says. “I'm just – not sure what the etiquette here is.”

“I don't think there is any etiquette here,” Quentin says. “I mean, I think ideally we'd just – be normal people. I'd just like to. Get back to normal, as much as possible.” He sounds a little pessimistic about the  _as possible_ part, but Eliot endorses the sentiment.

And he can do his part, hopefully. “Okay,” he says. “So – on a normal day, we'd – you'd probably be on campus most of the day, actually. But if we did both have a day.... I don't know. What would we do?” He doesn't even say it like he's flirting, because he's not. He honestly doesn't know if he remembers what normal feels like.

Quentin scoops up the cat and rehomes him to the coffee table so Quentin can sit up. “Come over here,” he says. He doesn't say it like he's flirting, either. Eliot's not sure if that's disappointing or a relief.

This isn't normal. He's kind of glad he doesn't have to act like it is.

He sits in the middle of the couch, angled toward Quentin. Quentin smiles shyly at him and rubs his fingertips along the scruff on Eliot's jaw. “Good news first or bad news first?” he asks.

A softball question. “Bad news first,” Eliot says. You always pick bad news first; it's impossible to enjoy good news with tragedy waiting in the wings.

“I'm overall feeling pretty good,” Quentin says, confusingly. That's the bad news? “But I've had like – industrial-grade doses of emotional stuff, and I'm just really – I mean, I'm  _good_ , I'm okay, but I feel kind of.... You know in like Roadrunner cartoons, when the coyote gets run over by a truck, and then he gets up and walks around, but he's still completely flat? I feel like that. Like I got hit by something, and now I'm just kind of staggering around, two-dimensional.”

“Completely understandable,” Eliot says. “You know, you probably just need to – take it easy for a while.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “I just think I need to, um, be careful about how I re-engage with – stuff that's emotionally charged. I want to get back to normal, but I think. I just need to do that slowly.”

That's the bad news. Okay. Eliot can swallow that. “Just to be clear,” he says, “I'm emotionally charged stuff, right?”

“Uh, yeah, you are,” Quentin laughs. “Because I'm just – I'm so in love with you, and I'm so scared that. That we got serious way too fast, and you still don't really know me yet, and you won't – when you do know me, you won't--”

“No, I--” Eliot says.

“No, right, I know,” Quentin says quickly. “I know that's not – a reality from your perspective, from where you are, I know that's not what you're thinking. I don't know if it's a symptom of the depression, exactly, or just fallout from it, but – you know, I have – it's been too much for some people, I get that. And I don't want to put that on you, I don't want to judge you on anything but you, and you've been – obviously, obviously you've been – great.  _Amazing_ . But that feeling, like I've broken things, like I don't always know how to stop myself when I'm doing it.... That doesn't go away just because someone tells me, or I tell myself, that it's crazy to think that. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Eliot says. “Yeah, of course it does. I just. I mean, you know me, you know I want to fix this for you. But – you're right. You were right all along when you told me that going into this relationship trying to fix the way you feel is fucked up. So I'm not gonna ask you – you know, what to do. How to help. You're an adult, and you – you know that I'm here if you do need help.”

He reaches for Eliot, closes his hand lightly around Eliot's forearm. “Eliot,” he says, soft and earnest and so vulnerable, god he's always been so willing to be vulnerable in front of Eliot, and Eliot would give anything to protect him no matter how fucked-up and impossible that is. “I need so much help. And if I need to – take things a little slow with you, or if it seems like I'm backing up a little, what I need is – is for you to know that it's all just about timing, and about me feeling kind of – fragile or whatever. It's not about you and it's not about us, except that-- I mean, it's about us in the sense that I want us to be together, I want to protect everything we have. I just need you to be okay with it, and to trust that I – really love you. More than ever, the more I do, you know, therapy and all that shit, sit with my feelings and all – more than ever, it's clear to me that I  _love_ you and I want to be with you, like – indefinitely. I mean. For the rest of my life.”

“Is that the bad news?” Eliot says. It's probably not in the best of taste, as jokes go, but he's feeling a little light-headed.

“Um,” Quentin says, “I think the bad news is that I don't want to have sex with you right now, but I thought the explanatory footnotes really added a lot of important context.”

“Okay,” Eliot says. “I'm ready for the good news.”

“Well, not to sound conceited,” Quentin says,  _hilariously_ , “but I guess the good news is, I really want you to kiss me?”

That is good news. Eliot smiles softly and draws Quentin closer with a hand behind his neck. He tilts his head and finds Quentin's lips blindly, and the kiss is a cool, gentle pressure, but with a thin line of fire at the edge of Eliot's senses, just waiting. Quentin's hand settles carefully against Eliot's arm as he leans into the kiss and gradually grips tighter and tighter, so Eliot guesses the blue shirt is approachable after all.

They stay like that for – a minute, Eliot thinks, or maybe two or three minutes, not pushing anything, but filling up each other's space. Eliot is agonizingly aware of everywhere they touch, and he wants so much to melt and flow into those points of connection, but – slow. They're taking things slow.

Slow is good.

Quentin sighs a little, his breath hot against Eliot's sensitized lips. “Sorry,” he mumbles, with a little smile and a squeeze to Eliot's arm before he lets go. “I mean. Sorry about....”

“Don't be sorry,” Eliot says, tucking Quentin's stray hair behind his ear. “Did you – did you mean what you said?”

“Yes,” Quentin says. “I mean, I don't know what you're talking about, specifically, but I haven't said anything today I didn't mean.”

Eliot sort of – knew already. He feels like they've both more or less known for a while – that this is it for them, that they're it for each other,  _indefinitely_ , pretty much – forever. It hasn't been said, but it's just been there, this future that they're nurturing together like a fussy orchid or a second pet, something neither of them quite remembers buying but they're both keeping alive. “Don't be sorry,” Eliot says again, pressing another firm kiss at an inconvenient angle to Quentin's mouth. “Okay. My proposal for you for this extremely normal afternoon is: mani-pedis?”

“That sounds nice,” Quentin says indulgently.

It's an extremely good idea.

Maybe Quentin's changed and maybe he hasn't, but he still goes quietly woozy with pleasure when you dip his feet in hot wax, and from his own chair ten feet away, Eliot feels more than free to just – watch what Quentin's face does when he's happy. God, Eliot can't get enough of it. Quentin is so _fucking_ handsome, with his dreamy dark eyes gazing into the middle distance as he reflects on whatever it is that the world looks like to him, whatever fills his overactive imagination on a good day.

Eliot can't gaze at anything that isn't Q. Why the fuck would he want to?

During their short walk through the parking lot, both of them treading carefully on scrubbed-soft feet, Quentin stays close enough to Eliot's side that their fingertips keep brushing, and he keeps turning his head to smile up at Eliot in a heartbreakingly distracting way. “Stop it,” Eliot finally has to say, smiling back.

“Stop what?” Quentin says, but his smile turns more playful, giving away the game.

“Being delectable,” Eliot says.

Quentin's eyebrows shoot straight up. “ _Delectable_?” he repeats in disbelief. “Delectable. Seriously, that's what you went with?”

When they're doing Date Night stuff Eliot likes to open the car door for Quentin, but today they're aiming for _normal_ , so he doesn't do that. In fact, maybe they need to – tap the brakes on all of this, the flirty stuff at least, before Eliot semi-on-purpose forgets the important conversation they just had.

“So, on that topic,” Eliot says as Quentin wrestles with his seat belt.

“What topic?”

“Your fucking _weaponized cuteness_ ,” Eliot says, trying not to smile at the confusion of emotions that register across Quentin's face at that description. “I don't want – I'm not being pushy. Just take – you know, of course, take whatever you need, you _know_ I want you to just. Feel good. About everything.”

“El,” he says kindly. “I know.”

Eliot takes a quick, hard breath. It's a good day, it's a good day, and he doesn't want to ruin – no expectations, but – “It would just be. Helpful for me if I could kind of visualize.... I don't know. What you want me to do? Today, at least? Tonight?”

“This was nice,” Quentin offers, shy and shoe-gazey again. Eliot wants to reach over and cover his hand, stroke his hair, cup the back of his neck and hold onto him. He leaves his hands on the steering wheel instead, staring firmly at them as if he doesn't trust them out of his sight. “I figured – we'd all eat dinner together. Hopefully, you know, play a game with Ted or something.” He blinks hard and abruptly, several times in a row, thinking about it. The _bones_ ache in Eliot's hands from not reaching out to touch him. “And then – I guess you're asking about--? I don't know. Would you want to--”

“Yes,” Eliot says.

Quentin croaks a little laugh. “You maybe shouldn't promise--”

“Yes,” Eliot says, and Quentin leans back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don't know how to do this,” Eliot admits. “You came along a little late to put your name on many of my firsts, but this is – my first time _going slow_ , actually. I love you so much – I would do anything, but I don't know. I don't know how.”

“I don't want to spend another night away from you,” Quentin says, and it goes through Eliot like the stab of an ice cream headache, a sudden shock of pain that just makes him hungry for more. “Could you stay with me? I mean, even if--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Eliot says. “God. Q. Come on, there's no _even if_. I can stay with you. I want to. I was afraid you wouldn't let me.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, his brow furrowed and his shoulders tensed, and Eliot hates that all the melty mellowness of fifteen minutes ago is gone just like that. He should've kept his goddamn mouth shut, he should've – no expectations, no agenda-- “I started taking Prozac when I was eleven,” he says. “My parents fought about it. My father said we should listen to the doctor. My mom said – Dad was turning me into a hypochondriac, and that being moody was normal at my age and I was just being pathologized by drug companies for corporate profit, and that if I never learned how to self-regulate my emotions, I'd grow up neurotic. I don't know, it wasn't the only thing they fought about, but. I don't know. It's stupid, it's not your fault. I just want to be – _not_ a moody, neurotic hypochondriac that – nobody can stand to be around--”

“I am not leaving,” Eliot says. “I know that you know that, and I know you're scared anyway. I can't – I can't fix this. I can't do anything except keep saying it. I'm not leaving you. Whether you want to stay on the meds or not, that's up to you. I hope that – you make a decision that makes you feel better instead of worse, but I'm not going to – fucking love you more or want to stay with you longer if you stop being as sick, that's not. How it works, for me. And I'm not going to love you more or stay with you longer if you suck my dick tonight or next week or – I mean, ever, honestly, although if you're leaning toward _never_ , we might need to have some conversations. But I wouldn't leave you. I wouldn't want to, I'd just – miss you too fucking much if I ever left you, and then I'd have to come crawling back begging for your forgiveness. And I'm a very selfish person with no intention of putting myself through that kind of humiliation, okay? Really, sweetheart, if you can't trust my self-protective instincts, what _can_ you trust?”

“Airtight logic,” Quentin says, with a soft, dry grind under his voice that's almost a laugh. “It's not that I don't – appreciate you saying that. It just seems like...a long trip. From here to – never. Or forever. Or.... You know? I'm sorry. I just.”

“Don't be sorry,” Eliot says briskly, turning the key in the ignition. “It can be a long trip. Journey, destination, blah blah blah.”

Quentin smiles, still gazing straight ahead. Eliot only sees it because he's turned in that direction, looking behind him while he reverses out of his parking spot. “Is that what your therapist has been telling you? Blah blah blah?”

“Well, you know,” Eliot says. “I pay him sliding scale.”

It's still a couple of hours early, but they decide to spring Ted from school like irresponsible guardians, and that's – another good idea (Eliot's on a roll today), because Ted, who's been a little anxious but overall pretty stoic about his father being in the hospital, just like – _melts down_ on the front steps of the school. Good to get that out of the way two hours before the pick-up line circus begins, in Eliot's opinion. He takes a little walk toward the school garden, where a plaster statue of St. Francis chilling with a bird friend and a squirrel friend stands at the gate. Eliot chills with them, watching from a distance as Quentin sits on the steps, holding Ted in his lap and soothing him as he cries.

He wishes he had a cigarette. He should quit again, right? He's going to. It wasn't so hard last time, not really. Well – it wasn't the hardest thing he's done this year.

It's actually been a really hard year, when you stop and do the math. Eliot would cry, too, if it didn't take him seventy minutes of therapy, two cocktails, and a Sondheim medley before he can experience a human emotion through the haze of his PTSD.

Working on that.

Eventually Quentin stands up, carrying Ted, and Eliot moves to meet them at the car. This is how Eliot first met Ted, strangely enough: worn-out and weepy, clinging to his father's neck. At the time, he'd seemed almost like an alien being, for as much as Eliot knew about kids. Now he's-- Eliot's son? Yes, right? Eliot spends all his time with his nose to the ground like a hunting dog, planning today and tomorrow ( _no expectations_ ), making the logistics of their lives work ( _no agenda_ ), and all this – this permanence – he's not used to it. It hits strangely every time he says any of it, even inside his own head – _father, son, husband, wife, family, I'm here now, I won't leave_ – words that describe a wider world, a bigger future than Eliot's ever known how to imagine for himself.

It's less like watering a fussy orchid and more like taking up falconry. It's a thing that _crazy people_ do, but here Eliot is doing it and hoping he doesn't lose an eye.

“What?” he says when he realizes Ted is talking to him. “Oh, uh – no, there's chicken for dinner at home. But since we have time before that, should we go to the bookstore on campus?”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Quentin, which is – fine, although he wasn't really the person Eliot was talking to. Ted's almost as into the idea, however, so it works out.

It's a good idea. Quentin and Ted look at books and toys together; Quentin buys him a Harry Potter mug with Harry's owl on it. “Excellent,” Eliot says when Ted brings it to the magazine rack where Eliot's browsing _Vanity Fair_. “You want to use it at dinner tonight?”

“No!” Ted says like Eliot is threatening him with something unpleasant. “It's for the _morning_. Like you and Dad use to drink coffee and tea.”

“Oh, got it,” Eliot says. “But you don't drink coffee or tea.”

“Why can't I put orange juice in it?” Ted asks.

“Well, because mugs are made thick like that to keep hot drinks hot.”

Ted makes the face of a child really doing his best to make sense out of adult bullshit and says, “So it'll make my orange juice hot?”

“No, it-- No. You know what, don't listen to me. There's literally no reason you can't have orange juice in an owl mug tomorrow morning.”

Eliot thinks it's pretty cool of him, actually, to admit that he was wrong, because _some people_ have parents that never do that for any reason ever, but Ted does not look impressed by Eliot's parenting. He just rolls his eyes and says, “He's not an _owl_ , he's _Hedwig_ ,” like Eliot is getting stupider before his very eyes.

So, normal.

God, it's actually – a really normal afternoon. Ted talks about numbers bigger than one hundred, and whales, and tapioca pudding all the way home, and Quentin seems to be listening at least eighty percent while Eliot manages, like, thirty-five. They get a minute's peace when Eliot can manage to reroute him into kitchen help by having him pick through the bagged salad mix for stray slimy bits while Eliot gets the frozen potato wedges in the oven and Quentin sets the table.

Nobody even acknowledges anything unusual until Margo comes home, and she's through the door and pulling her heels off before she notices. There's a pricelessly rare moment of shock on her face, and then she grins at Eliot and says, “You son of a bitch,” before going into Quentin's arms for a hug, her pumps still dangling by their straps from her finger as she wraps her arms around Quentin's shoulders. “You're sneaky,” she accuses one or both of them, resting her cheek against Q's shoulder.

“Surprise,” Quentin says gently. “It's good to see you, Margo.”

“You, too, bunny,” she says with an odd, tender little rasp in her voice. She pulls away, fruitlessly grooming her skirt and hair with one hand to obscure the fact that she almost did like a weeping-adjacent kind of thing there for a second. Eliot's right there to hand her a sidecar, because one of the things that bond them is a mutual understanding of the power of cognac to smooth over messy moments and restore normalcy.

After dinner, Eliot looks over the homework in Ted's folder; it's just a few stupid spelling words that he has to make up sentences for, but it seems cruel to ask him to focus on this shit right now, so Eliot basically just comes up with sentences himself and has Ted write them down, which yes, is cheating, but it's not the LSATs, it's a first-grade spelling worksheet, it'll be fine. Meanwhile, Margo and Quentin have already broken out a bottle of wine and the Clue board.

It's all so boring and nerdy and domestic, and Eliot thinks – is this _going slow_? Quentin's worried about things that feel _emotionally charged_ , so instead they're trying so hard to act normal, loading the dishwasher together and joking around about Neville's glow-up, and that's – safe ground, Eliot thinks? It seems like it is for Q, but for Eliot the whole day just feels -- too big, too real, too _pretty much forever_ , and what helps him with that normally is--

Well, whatever, it's not about what helps _Eliot_ right now, is it? Quentin is still coming back from something fucked up and scary, still making his way up out of the dark. And Eliot doesn't know what to do, but he knows that all the real shit in his life has already escalated way past the phase where it makes sense to sulk because he misses the way Quentin's hair feels between his fingers, the heat of Quentin's breath on his neck, and he misses the patient, undemanding silence that falls between them when they're twined together in the dark.

“El?” Quentin says softly, and Eliot snaps his head around toward him, feeling the sharp chill of fear he always used to feel when he was sure he was somehow thinking forbidden thoughts much too loudly. “Are you gonna play with us?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. On impulse, he pecks a light kiss against Quentin's temple before drying his hands on the dish towel and turning off the kitchen light to head around to the dining table and join the rest of his family. He sits on Margo's side of the table, and Quentin sits across from him, watching him with nonjudgmental curiosity as Eliot bends his attention solely to the moment, to the job of normal and happy and boring and safe.

He has fun. They all do. They laugh at each other and with each other, and Ted wins the first game (Eliot helps him cheat again, so what? Home is where the heart is, and family is the people who won't let you lose even if they have to game the system a little, right?), Quentin the second – _probably_ not because he's cheating, although he does some fancy nonsense when shuffling the help cards which would raise Eliot's suspicions if he didn't more or less trust Quentin. There's a very moderate, weekday amount of wine and half a box of gluten-free cauliflower Cheez-Its, and there's people who love Eliot when they probably shouldn't, and there's good luck and good health insurance and – a way forward, Eliot thinks, and that's maybe as much as people as fucked up as them get to ask for.

It's good, it's a good day. It's better days from here, maybe. Not forever – _better days forever_ is the kind of expectation that can only ever break your heart, but – still. But still.

Eliot is perfectly happy to give up his spot as Margo's back-up dancer at bedtime, telling himself virtuously that it's a good bonding opportunity for Q and Ted – which it is – and not just that he's sleep-short and emotionally drained and starting to get frustrated with being _on_ all day. Which he is.

Anyway he ducks out to Quentin's by himself, feeds the cat and finishes the laundry and cleans up and changes into his robe, then settles on Quentin's couch to let the YouTube algorithm determine his destiny for a little while.

He puts his phone aside when Quentin lets himself in. Quentin crouches down and picks up Fester, rubbing his ears and watching Eliot with that flutter-soft shyness that takes Eliot way back to the beginning. God, he thought Quentin was so fucking cute then. He still thinks that, but in a more – complex way. There's layers now.

“You look nice,” Quentin says. There's no real heat in the way his eyes travel over Eliot's body stretched out on the couch, but Eliot can't take offense; Quentin just looks like he's copy-pasting Eliot over and over into his brain, relieved to be making new memories instead of just living off the ones he's had to ration for the last few weeks. “Thanks for – you know, being here. I know it's. Things are weird right now.”

“It's really where I want to be,” Eliot says. Quentin nods like he understands. On some level, he probably does, but Quentin's got layers. “What can I do?” Eliot asks. “What do you want?”

“I don't know,” Quentin admits. “Honestly, I really don't know. I want to feel like I'm not completely failing as a boyfriend? _Don't_ say I'm not failing.” Eliot shuts his mouth sharply. “I know you don't think I am. I know. But you will _move heaven and earth_ if I say I'm in a bad mood one day, and I just. It's not just the hospital, it's not – the meds, or my issues or whatever. I just don't – I don't know you like you know me. You have bad moods, too, you have your own shit, and I don't-- I never know what do to show up for you the way you show up for me. I want to, but I don't know how.”

Eliot sits up. He adjusts the sash on his robe for modesty and he nods at the space that remains on the couch. Quentin puts the cat down and comes to sit. “I'm not...” Eliot begins slowly. He doesn't want to kick this under the bed or make a joke out of it. They have to be past that now, if they're going to be grown-ups instead of just acting the part. “I'm not the easiest person to know. You're not wrong about that.”

“No, that was bullshit,” Quentin says. “I know you've shown me parts of you that you don't show anyone else. I don't know why I said that, I'm just – tired and being kind of a dick and--”

God, fuck this, they could sit around and apologize to each other all night. Eliot does not have the patience for that, so instead he reaches out with his hand on Quentin's neck, leans in to kiss him. Quentin freezes under his hands, except for one hard inhalation that rushes past his lips and Eliot's.

“I love the way you smell,” Eliot murmurs, pressing his mouth against Quentin's pulse point. Quentin whines softly, and there's pleasure in it but also just enough panic that Eliot remembers what he's already promised. He lets go of Quentin, just allowing one hand to rest on Quentin's thigh and his forehead to rest on Quentin's shoulder. After a moment, Quentin strokes gingerly over Eliot's hair. “Do you trust me?” Eliot says softly. “If I – trust you enough to tell you what I really want, can you trust me enough to do it?”

Quentin is silent for a long minute. “I feel like that's kind of a dickish thing to ask, but I also – really want to say yes?” he finally says.

“I can be kind of a dick, too,” Eliot says. “I don't know why you have me on this pedestal.”

“Love is blind, I guess,” Quentin says. Eliot can feel the ripple in the muscles of Quentin's throat as he swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, tell me.”

There's actually – no way Eliot can tell him. He doesn't have a vocabulary with room in it for _trust_ or _intimacy_ or _surrender_ or _mutual_ or _entangled_. He only has Quentin.

But he stands up and he takes Quentin's hands, and he leads Quentin into the bathroom, and he sits on the edge of the tub as he runs the water, testing it for heat with his fingertips while Quentin stands wedged against the sink, arms crossed over his chest and eyes wary. “We're not going to both fit in there,” Quentin says.

“It's just for you,” Eliot says. If they were at Eliot's place, he'd have Margo's stash of bath bombs to raid, but here the best he can do is the bar of juniper and sage soap that he bought Quentin for Christmas and is still, he's pretty sure, unopened in Quentin's medicine cabinet.

“El,” he says, a faint protest, probably the abbreviated form of _Eliot, be reasonable_. Eliot ignores that. He stands up while the tub fills and retrieves the soap from the cabinet, then puts it down by the sink so he can use both hands to gather up the bottom of Quentin's henley. “Wait,” Quentin says breathlessly when Eliot starts to pull it up, both of his hands landing on Eliot's wrists. “El, wait.”

So he does. He waits, unmoving, watching confusion and nerves and love shadow Quentin's handsome face, one at a time and in combination. Finally it starts to seem hopeless, so Eliot stops waiting and says, “Would you try it for me, sweet boy? I think it'll make you feel good. All I want is to see you feel good again.”

_Because you felt so bad for so long_ , he doesn't say. _Because you're here now and I didn't lose you after all._

“Okay,” Quentin says shakily. “Just – let me do it myself, okay?” Eliot nods and stands down, turning his back to go check the filling tub. He can hear the rustling of Quentin's clothes, his zipper, the thump of his rubber-soled shoes bouncing off the cabinet as he kicks them off.

Ideally there would be a dimmer switch in the bathroom, but alas for this fallen world, there isn't. Eliot turns all the living room lights on and leaves the door open before turning off the bathroom light, and the effect is still a bit darker than Eliot would prefer, but it'll do. He sits on the tile by the foot end of the tub, leaning against the wall and watching as Quentin, sheltered slightly by the lack of light, unwraps the bar of soap and puts his focus into lathering up and washing. The ripples in the water seem really loud in the silence every time he moves, and Eliot closes his eyes, soothed by the lapping sound. It reminds him of being way, way out in the Pacific Ocean, floating in a swimming pool on a yacht for reasons that now elude him. Who _was_ that person? Why did he chase so many things that he knew all along weren't worth having? Why was he always moving, always surrounded by noise, even though he was only happy in the silence thirty miles from shore or the silence of being fucked-up on a fistful of K?

“Hey,” Quentin says. Eliot opens his eyes, but it's hard to read the nuances of Quentin's expression in the dark. Quentin stretches his arm out on the edge of the tub, fingers extended toward Eliot, and Eliot takes the hand he's offering. “This is kind of nice.”

“I should tell you something,” Eliot says. He's not sure if this is the right time. He's not sure what the right time is. Quentin just gives him space to fill, so Eliot takes a deep breath and says, “I slept with Margo.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. There aren't any hidden meanings that Eliot can detect. Just – _oh_.

“I don't really – I don't know what to say,” Eliot says. “I don't. Even know if I'm sorry, honestly. Yes and no?”

“Well, I – don't really think I'm mad,” Quentin says carefully, as though he's turning his heart over in his hands, examining it for chips and dents. “Honestly, I wasn't a hundred percent sure that you weren't sleeping together before.”

That kind of – _shocks_ Eliot, actually, which is maybe a little hypocritical. “Well, I – wasn't,” he says. “I mean, the last time was years before I met you. I mean, not to be – but I definitely would've mentioned it to you, if I'd been fucking someone else.”

“I don't know, I guess I just don't see Margo as, like, _someone else_ ,” Quentin says, almost maddeningly reasonable. “She's your wife. You literally share a literal bed.”

“Okay, well, I'm glad you're not jealous,” Eliot says. It comes out less than totally sincere. He's not even sure if he _is_ sincere or not. Yes, he wants Quentin to be at peace with the situation, but would it kill him to maybe have – like a _journey_ to get there?

“Well, I didn't really say that,” Quentin says. “It's just that I'm always low-key jealous of Margo, and I guess this doesn't feel like it changes anything.”

“You are?” What the _hell_? Quentin has never seemed jealous for a moment of Margo, and Quentin's a _terrible_ actor.

Quentin laughs a little, sleepy and easy below the lighter sound of the rippling water as he shifts around. “I mean, yeah, of course? You have this whole life with her, this whole part of you that you can only ever share with her. Yeah, it sucks a little, but what am I going to do about it? We all come with our drama, you know? And I love Margo, it's not like I secretly want her gone or something. She's good for you, she's amazing for Ted – I mean, I definitely want her in our lives, and I'm not gonna pretend I understand exactly what you and Margo need from each other, because it seems super complicated to me, but. I trust the two of you to figure it out for yourselves, I guess.”

“Okay,” Eliot says blankly. “Well. Thanks.”

“I mean, it would be cool if you invited me next time,” Quentin says. “But, circumstances.”

It startles a little laugh out of Eliot, even though it's probably the least startling thing Quentin's said all night. “Next time I will,” he promises. He makes an effort to regain control by dropping his voice flirtily and saying, “It's actually very sexy, you being so _sophisticated_ about this. Very French.”

“Mm,” Quentin says with a little chuckle. “Well, it helps that she's low-key jealous of me, too. Kind of a rush, I have to admit.”

“Your little wine and chess dates get way more intense than I realized,” Eliot says.

“Some people talk about their feelings with their friends, El,” Quentin says dryly.

Some people do, he's sure, but Margo Hanson-Waugh is so rarely just some people. Anyway, he squeezes Quentin's hand and rubs it with his thumb, and he says, “What you said earlier today was intense – about wanting to be with me forever. It's been pretty hard acting like – that didn't happen, like nothing happened.”

“Too intense?” Quentin asks softly, like now he's moved on to inspecting Eliot's heart for damage.

“No,” Eliot says, just as softly. “Not, like – in a bad way. I was glad you said it. I just didn't like pretending it doesn't change things.”

“How does it change things?” Quentin asks.

It – doesn't, really. And it does. Eliot doesn't know, how should he know? Quentin's the writer, not him. “Maybe I don't really mean change,” he admits. “Maybe I just didn't like pretending it's not a huge fucking deal to me.”

“Sorry,” Quentin says. “I guess it wasn't the best timing for a heavy relationship talk. I think maybe we should – find more time to talk. Just the two of us. All my classes this semester are going to be Incompletes and I have to make up work over the summer, but still less than if I were taking summer classes. Maybe we can....”

“Date?” Eliot suggests. He vaguely remembers having fantasies of Quentin being his _dating guy_ , someone he'd set boundaries with, take things slow, leave himself room to get serious with. Be careful what you wish for, Eliot supposes.

“Well, it might be fun to try,” Quentin says.

“No more cat adoptions, though,” Eliot says.

“Damn,” Quentin says, sinking comfortably lower into the warm water. “That was my go-to move.”

They go to bed warm and cozy, Eliot's hands wrapped around the wrinkly tips of Quentin's fingers, but when Eliot wakes up before dawn, it's because Quentin is restless in his arms, rigid and twitchy. When Eliot puts his palm over Quentin's chest, he can feel Quentin's heart pounding. “What is it?” Eliot asks muzzily.

“Sorry,” Quentin says. “Sorry – I woke you up, sorry.”

“Hey,” Eliot whispers, petting Quentin's chest. “You're okay, right? We're okay?”

They lie in silence for a while. Eliot lies to himself that maybe Quentin's gone back to sleep, even though the tension in his body suggests otherwise. “Today is – real life,” Quentin finally says, minutes later. “Today is.... What if I can't handle it? What if I try and I can't – if I never can –?”

_Then I still won't leave you_ , Eliot wants to say, but – that's not right. That's making it about Eliot when it's not about Eliot. “You want to hear something my therapist told me?” he says instead.

“Yeah,” Quentin says with vague resignation. “Okay.”

Eliot gathers him closer, resting his cheek on Quentin's hair. He closes his eyes. “We do this weird thing where we pretend we can see the future. We know we technically can't, but our brains act like we can – today I have this planned, today is going to be busy, Mondays are the worst. We wake up, and we spin up this story about what's in front of us, but the truth is, what we're looking at is always the past. I planned for all this already. Other Mondays were bad. We think we know what's in front of us, but we're only ever looking backwards.”

“Huh,” Quentin says. “Okay, granting your proposition.”

“Thanks, nerd,” Eliot says fondly. “So your brain likes being right and hates being wrong, right? So if you look at the past and you guess about the future and you guess wrong, it's upsetting. But the thing is, if you look at the past and you guess about the future and you're right, it's actually just as bad in the long run, because you get like – addicted to this illusion that it's not all just high-stakes poker, that there's no chance involved, right? You start to expect to be right, so when you're eventually wrong, it hits different. It breaks you down more, because you think you should've guessed right, you were supposed to guess right. And maybe you hate it so much that you start twisting things around in your head, trying to prove yourself right. And that's how smart people start acting crazy.”

“I'm actually not acting,” Quentin says dryly.

Eliot sighs. It's too damn early for this. “Maybe I'm not explaining it right. The point is – you don't know what today's going to be like, and brains hate that. Your brain is just churning the waters, looking for anything in the past that's _like_ today, so it can build this fake story about a future that hasn't happened yet. And it's a shitty game, it makes you anxious, and it punishes you when you guess wrong even though _everyone guesses wrong_. So, like – don't play.”

“Don't play,” Quentin repeats.

“The game blows, don't play it,” Eliot confirms. “No expectations. Whatever's going to happen is going to happen, and you have more energy to deal with that actual, real thing if you're not also in this stupid argument with your own brain about how you thought it should have been instead.”

“I admit that part sounds nice,” Quentin says on a little yawn.

Eliot kisses Quentin's temple, hoping a little of his affection leaks through flesh and bone, finds its way to Quentin's smart, tangled, exhausted, precious brain. “Today is real life. And you don't know what kind of day it's going to be, but you don't _have_ to know. It's like five fucking thirty, you do not need to know the future yet. You can just – find out as you go.”

A good day, Eliot hopes. Better days, at least for a while.

No expectations. No agenda. Just Eliot and everyone he loves and this puzzle box that solves itself in its own time, this invisible future that rolls out in front of them like a way forward that winds up who the fuck knows where. It's wild and terrifying and Eliot's brain _hates_ not knowing, but he's been trying it this way for a while now, and it's getting – easier. Better. Eliot's getting a little better, even if only he knows it yet.

“Okay,” Quentin says. “Okay, yeah. Let's find out.”


End file.
